How to Kill a Man with Stilettos
by M. Prime
Summary: Not all girls handle compliments well, especially when a bad day is already worse. Even more so when they're coming from a handsome stranger at the bar calling you "doll" and commenting on your stilettos - twice. One self-conscious woman learns the valuable importance of self-confidence, especially in the presence of those with old-fashioned morals like Steve Rogers.


_Author's Note_**_:_ Heyyyy - again. So I couldn't help myself! After writing my Spider-Man oneshot _Sunflower Nights_, I had an idea pop into my head for a Steve one-shot that I couldn't shake. I had a delightful conversation with a friend regarding the topic of girls like us (of the plus size nature) struggling with confidence under male attention. Self-consciousness is ever present when in the same atmosphere as attractive men, and we were hypothesizing just what our reactions would be if transplanted into a situation in which a guy like Steve Rogers - a man from a time when being curvy was the stuff of pinups - would ever make a pass on a girl like us. **

**This is the result of that conversation! We're both writers, so I incorporated that into this story, just to give it a little extra something. Personally I love the tone and prose of this piece; if you do as well, please let me know and I'll consider taking it into a full piece. Reviews are so, so, SO helpful and appreciative. **

**The _Avengers_ audience is such a pleasure to write for. Ya'll are awesome.**

* * *

**How to Kill a Man with Stilettos**

Walking five blocks in six-inch heels on a Thursday afternoon probably wasn't the first definition of intelligence, if one bothered to look it up in the dictionary. However, it was really only one of a few minor details in an already depressing day, considering the circumstances.

With a crappy afternoon of query, an unsuccessful day of character development, and the most depressing bus ride in the history of Manhattan already well under her belt, a five-block walk in heels was the least of a starving and desperately-in-need-of-alcohol writer's concerns, momentarily.

Finding that her favorite afternoon haunt was not even close to meeting its usual level of business that afternoon, her spirits lifted exponentially as she shoved open the heavy oak door. Pushing it open shoulder first, she stepped over the unusually-raised threshold on wobbly ankles, doing her best not to topple into the door, dead on her feet as she was.

Giving the bar a quick perusal, she found an empty high-top chair that was almost screaming her name, offering relief that made her puff out an over-dramatic breath.

The noise of the city suddenly dulled behind her as the door fell closed lazily, her stepping fully into the ambient lighting of the establishment. She approached the bar on wobbling legs, shrugging her brown moto jacket off to toss over the top of her bag.

A bartender she didn't recognize was busy running receipts on the vintage register, though he managed to greet her with a raised brow and a very obvious glance to her neckline, which was unusually low-cut for her usual taste.

She'd decided to wear something a little more eye-catching today in hope that it would earn her not only the attention - but the contracts - of a few future publicists. The silk, butter-creme colored slip dress had cost her way more than the idea had, much to her disappointment. At least her friend had loaned her the stilettos.

Regardless of price or planning, the outfit had accomplished little to nothing. A series of, _we're-moving-in-another-direction-at-this-time_ dismissals had hung over her like a cloud of despair, despite how hard this dress - and her determination - had worked.

So, to say that the bartender's gaze brought her mild satisfaction, if not pride, was no stretch of the imagination.

Folding her hands in front of her, she crossed her feet at the ankles, rolled her left shoulder, and canted her head to the side as she studied the lineup of booze behind him. Most of it she couldn't really afford in her budget, but she'd decided to splurge and drown her disappointments in whiskey and appetizers before the night rush.

Gesturing with a raise of her hand and a nod, she opted for the second cheapest thing on the shelf.

"E and J on the rocks, with an order of pretzels," when his brow rose another few inches, she prodded him on with a look of irritation, "What, you need the money first?"

He shook his head, dropped another look to her neckline, and turned to retrieve the bottle. Sure, she could've probably picked up a bottle of it herself for next to the same price at the nearest bottle shop, but, she'd never be able to create the mood and atmosphere a bar could offer a frustrated gal.

When he turned away, she let her posture drop, and hung her head low for a few seconds, feeling the tension in her shoulders alleviate a little. Then, she let her head hang back, eyes closed, and she relished in the sound of the bottle's neck _tink_ lightly against a liquor glass.

Tipping her head slightly to the side, she rubbed the back of her neck roughly, hoping it would ease the hot bolt of pain racing into her temple.

It didn't. Instead, she felt a hot stare coming at her again, and when she opened her eyes, she saw the bartender staring at her stupidly again, drink in his hand. Reaching over the bar to retrieve it from him, she gave him a wry smile, a disbelieving raise of her brows, and a nod of appreciation before taking the first drink.

His eyes lingered a little longer, and she dropped her gaze to look down at her stilettos. Wishing she could've afforded something so expensive herself, she then opted to kick them off, where they clattered to the floor in front of her stool in a moment of clatter.

"I was just thinking how long women could go wearing those things before they drove them crazy," said the rich voice to her left. She had everything she could do not to shoot him a mildly irritated eye-roll, not really in the mood to entertain a man's obvious intrusion into her moment.

Willing to ignore him but not necessarily wanting to be rude, she flattened her lips into yet another wry smile and turned in her chair to face the voice, raising her glass to take another pull on her whiskey.

She almost choked on the hot liquid as her breath hitched, her heart exploding into a ball of heat.

Really, she couldn't describe him as anything other than as a fairy-tale Prince Charming, because he looked almost good enough to eat. Sitting casually at the bar, elbows draped across the worn wood, he lifted a bottle of Coors to his lips lightly, the immediate fact that his arm was the size of a small tree not escaping her attention. Broad shoulders trailed into tightly-corded arms carved with well-defined muscle, evident thanks to his casual t-shirt, which hung snugly to an even more well-defined set of pecks.

Complete with faded blue jeans, brown boots, and a leather jacket resting on the bar beside him, she would've given anything to see his eyes beneath his Yankees ball-cap, because it would've been the perfect addition to his face, which was chiseled and peppered with a five o'clock shadow.

Gulping back a breath, she had to recall his words through her head, because she was 95% positive that he'd been talking to her, which was almost impossible to imagine. Guys like him didn't talk to girls like her - guys like him dated super models that wore a double zero and had perfect hair out of magazines; not girls with rolls and pudge and out-of-control curls that were broke and ordering cheap brandy.

She blinked at him for a solid few seconds until he met her gaze, smiling at her with genuine friendliness.

Nodding to the shoes now discarded at her feet, he looked up at her with only his dark eyes. "Six inch heels?"

She sat staring at him like a moron for a few more seconds, until the thought to answer his question decided to overcome her like a wet blanket. "Uh, yeah," she fumbled, looking down at the shoes. "They aren't mine."

"Really? I thought every woman had a pair of heels that could make a guy's head spin." The simple, straightforward way he said it gave her a slight pause of appreciation. Was he _flirting_? With her_? _She didn't make a show of sweeping a gaze to the bar around her, but found he was, indeed, talking to her.

She shrugged a shoulder, letting her foot hang off the bottom of the stool, really unsure of what to say. She opted for a casual answer. "Well, we do, but mine didn't cost me my firstborn, and they didn't go with the dress and jacket."

Nodding to the accessory in the chair beside her, she offered him a small smile.

"Loaned or rented?" He mentioned the shoes again, her wondering why he was so interested.

She chuckled at him, nodding in approval of his thought. "If there was a way to rent stilettos, I'd have no promise of a firstborn ever." When he snorted at her, she added lightly, pointing at the shoes as she paused before tossing another drink back. "She's a doctor."

Tossing back the last of the whiskey, she set her glass down with a _crack. _

"That explains it," he gestured to her empty glass. "Rough day?"

Making a wrinkled, flippant face, she turned back to face the bar. "More than you know," she gave him a side-glance while waving the bartender down with a raised hand. "You?"

"No, just a good place to think." he said matter-of-factly.

She nodded, grimly. "I guess you're not a man unless you dramatically consider life over a beer or bottle of scotch." Turning to grin at him, she popped up an eyebrow ridge.

He smiled at her. "That's one way of putting it."

"That's experience," she countered.

"Ouch," he wrinkled his nose. "Boyfriend?"

"I'm a writer." It sounded so stupid, but also necessary, since she didn't want to adhere to the fact that she was not only single, but had never been in a serious relationship. She didn't need to give beefcake here any more ideas of how to ridicule her on his way home tonight.

The way he nodded slowly put her mind at ease that nothing else needed to be explained, and that he was satisfied with her answer. The bartender had seemed to get over himself quick enough, because he poured another drink her way, sliding it across the bar lightly before she stopped it with her extended hand.

"I'm Steve." He studied her a moment longer, before pushing his beer slightly out of his way, enough for him to reach across the seat between them and offer her a hand.

"Nice to meet you."

Her hand slipped inside his so perfectly that she thought she could hear bells in the distance. All at one, heat enveloped her palm, and before she could panic and relinquish her hand, she realized it was coming from his massive paw. The strength in his hand echoed the presumed strength in his arms, and her mouth almost fell open to drool onto the very floor he was currently staring at.

"The longer I think about it, the more I think you could kill a man with those." He sat back in his chair and grabbed for his beer, pulling back an easy drink. His eyes lifted to meet hers beneath the ball-cap, and there was just enough light to realize that his were an easy brown, that were soft and...gentle.

She rolled her eyes lightly at him, a snort rumbling around her chest. "You act like they're the first set of stilettos you've laid eyes on."

"They are." The dead-seriousness of the way he spoke shot right through her like a bolt of heat.

Her brow wrinkled in confusion. "What?" She couldn't believe for a second that this man was actually serious - Manhattan was filled with billboards and shops and magazines that were littered with women in not only lingerie, but six-inch heels not so unlike those at her feet.

He diverted his eyes swiftly, a touch of red blossoming on his nose. "Well, I mean it's my first time seeing them so...up close."

She dropped her gaze when he looked back to meet her gaze. "I see. So, I guess welcome to the club of well-acquainted-with-stilettos men." When he snorted the drink he'd pulled, she laughed at him. "It's very exclusive, Steve. You should be proud." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, though he took the barb like a champ.

"I'm surprised it wouldn't be more admitting, especially if it's filled with beautiful women like yourself."

She froze mid-drink, flailing only when a dribble of whiskey dripped form the corner of her mouth and down her neck. Setting the glass on the counter, she paused rigidly to swipe at the line of liquid with the back of her hand, dragging a mock glare over in his direction, though Steve was laughing as if she were the funniest thing in the world. Though, she couldn't help but notice his laugh was deep and rich like the rest of his voice, and he had the most beautiful smile she'd even seen in a man.

He was trying to compose himself when she attempted to make a recovery. "I would thank you, but, it appears I've forgotten how to function like a normal human being."

His lips tickled with a grin. "Normal is overrated." When she shot him a surprised look, he gestured to the open seat beside her with his beer in hand. "You mind?"

Her mouth almost fell open. Hesitating a moment, she lifted her drink, turned to face him in the seat, and draped her leg over the other casually. Considering that the aforementioned seat was currently occupied by her things, the notion required him to go through the trouble of moving it; a very intimate action for a man just wanting casual conversation.

"I suppose that's up to you," she concluded into the glass she'd lifted to her lips.

He considered her a moment, as if he were confused by her statement, but didn't hesitate to fluidly slip out of his own seat, casually pluck her bag out of the chair, and - very visibly - drape the strap behind the chair. Then, he casually slid into the stool beside her, sitting back to take another drink.

_Okay, _she paused to tell herself, _so beefcake is flirting with you. Huh. D__on't freak out about this. _She finally looked to the line of liquor against the back wall, hoping he attributed the blush currently exploding on her cheeks to quick drinking instead of surprised astonishment. However, his lingering but respectful gaze told her he knew _exactly _what he was doing.

"You're surprised," he spoke into the atmosphere very suddenly.

She snapped her attention on him, almost thinking her neck could've flown off onto the floor. "That is...that is putting it graciously." She lifted the glass again and let her shoulder shrug lightly, letting her gaze drop down to consider the liquid in her glass, which was half-raised.

He looked away, considering the mirror across from them for a moment. "Society hasn't changed much, has it?" When her confused brow considered him, he took another hard pull from his drink, before the bottle hit the counter with a light _crack, _and he shoved it to the middle of the bar.

"I don't follow," she tried to sound confused, but failed.

He humored her. "You're surprised by my offer. Which is ridiculous, because you've got to be one of the most beautiful women I've seen in a good long while." He folded his hands on the bar, and turned his head toward her, his eyes lingering only briefly on the place where her hips flared from her torso.

Unfortunately graced with an over-rounded hourglass figure, the very place on her body had been the subject of one too many disappointed looks, though she noted that he was quite visibly failing in his attempt to be respectful. Feeling even more uncomfortable, she squirmed in her seat, and dropped her leg from over the other.

Her lower lips rolled inward beneath her teeth. "Then I guess you're right," she murmured softly, "standards don't make it easy for a girl, especially in Manhattan."She took another long, slow drink, her stomach feeling suddenly very sick. "Props to you for having a brain, Steve."

It was a genuine compliment - most men didn't have the guts to say such things to women like her. Though, she must've given the vibe that the subject needed to either be dropped or the conversation should stop, because he shifted in his seat, draped an arm over the back of his chair, and leaned back far enough to consider her fully from beneath the brim of his hat.

"A man would be insane to think otherwise." He changed the subject then, "Sounds like you've had a rough go with New York."

She shook her head lightly, picking up on his observation that she was, indeed, not from New York. "Enough of a rough ride, yeah. Been a long year." When he gave her a knowing expression, she inserted, "I moved here from the Midwest, which explains the hips." She gestured to her figure with an outstretched hand and a raised brow, smiling at him weakly.

Steve switched off his empty for a new Coors with the bartender, smoothly. "So, a writer huh?"

Thankful for the conversation change, she exhaled a sharp sigh and widened her eyes a little, as if his observation frightened her. "That's my unfortunate talent, yep."

He shook his head mid-drink, set the beer down solidly, and gave her an annoyed look. "Are you always this self conscious, or is it just me?"

Steve's visible irritation stopped her dead in her tracks, which resulted in a somewhat-caught expression from her. It had never really occurred to her that her self-depreciation could very well offend someone else; it was just a way to cope with attention that she had thought was charitable. Now, for the first time in her 24-years, she realized that it was not only unwanted, but a strong turn-off.

Fumbling for recovery was her only option. "Oh, uh, well..." she let her head fall back, closing her eyes to let out a defeated sigh. "I guess there's no easy answer to your question."

He stared at her, stunned for a moment. "I guess not."

"It's just that guys...guys make things complicated." She turned to face him, taking a rushed drink before beginning to gesture with her hand first to herself. "Girls like me are always told what clothes to wear, what things to say, what make-up to use to make our faces _acceptable_. And then, when we do all those things, we go out and not only do men most times turn tail and run the other direction, they make nice, and you never hear from them again."

Her buzzed rambling was louder than she anticipated, drawing attention to not only herself, but to Steve too. "Turns out 'acceptable' isn't that at all." She gestured to him, "Guys like you, Steve - you see, guys like you never end up with girls like me, because I'm not acceptable, and it's some ridiculous made up rule that we couldn't possibly be compatible."

She snorted, "There was a time when women like me were the picture of beauty. My Lord, just look at the pinups from the 40's for God sakes; women were more than acceptable. They were _sexy_, and they were _curvy. _No, more than that - they were fat, and they were sexy, and men wanted them."

She was stunned that he was still listening to her ramble, and not only was he listening, she could see the look of compassion etched across his brow, as well as recognition as to what she was saying. Which made everything worse, because she suddenly felt guilty, as if she'd insulted him, though he didn't show an ounce of anger or offense in his face.

Shaking her head sullenly, she downed the rest of her whiskey, hopped off the bar-stool, and reached for her jacket behind Steve's chair, suddenly feeling naked in her yellow slip-dress and bare feet.

She went to grab the bag's strap when Steve's hand caught her wrist, solidly. "Please," he said, an almost longing tone in his voice, "don't go."

A spark of anger flashed through her chest, and she jerked her arm back, frowning at him. She'd seen this before - men who didn't want her to stomp off mad due to their own conscience. God forbid he'd have to live with himself for patronizing her, like every other before him.

She reeled back half a step, the floor sticky beneath her bare feet. "And what, stay so you can sit there and feel sorry for me? I don't think so." She rolled her eyes, waving him off with a flippant hand.

She shook her head, and went for the bag again, this time Steve expertly slipping off the chair to intercept her, his hulking frame suddenly taking up all the space between her own body, and the back of his previously-occupied furniture. He was staring down at her with intensely brown, pleasing eyes, hands in a surrender position at either side of him.

"No. Stay because I want you to." That was Steve's solid, though kind, reply.

Her mouth flew open in what she had hoped was a smarmy reply, but instead just sat there, breathing air. Perhaps she was waiting for him to say something else, she wasn't certain - but instead, he just sat there, his brows slightly up as if persuading her to say something else. She was genuinely marveled at how he could be so genuine - her heart was thrumming wildly in nervousness, and she found it tough to breathe; she was sure sweat was sending a barrage against her foundation.

She blinked at him, a few times. "Why?"

Steve didn't hesitate. "Because I want you to," he said again, his voice pointed to reinforce his previous statement.

"You don't even know me."

Steve made a _duh _gesture, angling his head. "Hence the reason I asked you to stay. You obviously didn't hear me say that I think you're beautiful," he gave her a sarcastic smirk. "Newsflash, doll - guys don't just ask every girl if they can sit next to them and talk, you know."

It was a simple statement, said with poignancy and respect, which was not lacking in Steve's now almost chivalrous gaze. While he hadn't shied away from looking at her waistline, she noticed immediately that he had not once made a move to look down her shirt, and even now, there was a respectable amount of distance between them. He smelled like alcohol, but was solid as a rock; not the swaying pig she would've expected.

It occurred to her that Steve might've been a stand-up guy, and that she might've been a jerk, as much as she didn't like it. Instead of stating it out loud, however, she took a half step back, placing a hand on the back of her vacated chair, as if it would put something between them. She looked away, considering his words.

Reasoning she wasn't going to run away, Steve transitioned into a casual stance, arm arm draped over the back of his chair. Crossing his feet at the ankles, he tipped the bill of his cap up, showing even more of his gorgeous brown eyes. Suddenly, his sentence rang back into her ears.

"Did you just call me _doll_?" Her brow rose a few inches over her eye.

An explosion of pink rocketed to the apple's of Steve's cheeks, and she noticed that his ears turned bright red under the reiteration of the comment. Smiling sheepishly, he straightened and looked down at his feet, and for a moment she thought he'd go so far with the boyish act as to stick his hands inside his pockets and scuff the toe of his boot against the floor.

She twisted her lips into a suspicious crook. "So, Steve-the-mysterious-beefcake-with-the-old-fashioned-vocabulary," she crossed her arms, "tell me something."

His head popped up to look so dead in the eye she'd thought she'd croak over. "Anything."

"What's a sweet-talking guy like you doing single, anyway?"

A crooked smile pulled at the corner of his mouth and he shrugged a shoulder. "Believe it or not, you're not the only one with dating complications," he thumbed over his shoulder and tipped his head to the side, invitingly, "Now, is a pretty girl like you going to let me take you out for something to eat, or do you need to get something else off your chest first?"

She burst out laughing at him, so much so that she had to cover her mouth with a hand. The sparkle in his eye and the grin on his face told her he'd been nothing but kidding about the latter, but extremely serious and anticipatory about the former. Rolling his words around her over-contemplative head for a few moments, she let her hand drop from her mouth and cocked her head to the side, crossing one foot over the other while leaning against her chair.

He went so far as to grab her bag, sling it over his shoulder, and extend her jacket. "Well? Thoughts, concerns, considerations?" He took an authoritative tone, and checked the watch on his wrist, "My meter is almost up." Pulling out his wallet, he whipped out thirty bucks and tossed it on the table nonchalantly.

Pursing her lips together in an attempt to quell her laughter, she swiped the jacket out of his hand and began shrugging it on. "Okay, fine. But I'm buying food. You don't get to be charming _and _provisional."

He grinned at her. "I wouldn't dream of it." Ducking to grab her heels, she took them in hand and made for the door, Steve following her out before glancing down at the pair in her hands. When she wrinkled her nose at him and shook her head no, he smiled at her and shrugged a shoulder.

Holding the door open with an arm extended above her head, he asked as she passed beneath his arm, which might as well have been as solid as steel beam. "So, tell me, what is it you write anyway?"

She rolled her eyes to the sky, and he fell into step beside her. "Would you believe me if I told you I'm a romance novelist?"

Steve burst out laughing. "You're kidding."

She shook her head. "No. I'm in the process of querying agents for publication." His laughter grew so significant that Steve had to stop and double over. She was grinning like an idiot, brow raised. "You're surprised," she echoed his tone from earlier.

This only made him laugh harder, nodding firmly his reply. After making quite a scene beneath a waning New York sky, he finally manage to composed himself, coming up beside her and shaking his head in mild disbelief. After they walked a few more steps, he looked down at her and raised an eyebrow of what she just knew would be a sarcastic comment.

"You like burgers and milkshakes?"

This time, it was her laughter that rang loud and clear down the sidewalk.


End file.
